


Green Fire

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: Mötley Crüe
Genre: Angst, First Meetings, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: "Well, forget it." The man looked away, down toward the cement ravine below. His grip loosened somewhat. Mick's heart lurched into his throat. "I don't have anybody." The man pressed his lips together into a thin line.
Relationships: Mick Mars/Nikki Sixx
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Green Fire

Mick, truth be told, really didn't know what he was doing on the sunset strip after midnight, when all the true scum of the city came out from their shells and made their presence known, when the rich were fast asleep, tucked inside their beds while the poor were left to battle it out like a couple of gladiators on speed. Mick was far from rich, but he was usually smart enough to retreat to his apartment when even the flickering lights in the distance went out, but yet, he was still there, drinking a glass of vodka and trying to pretend that some guy hadn't puked on his shoes a few minutes earlier. 

The bar should've been closed by now, as Mick had naturally assumed, but the steely-faced bartender didn't seem keen on closing down yet, when it was apparently only 'twelve to freak' as he had said just a minute or so prior. Mick didn't know what that meant, and really didn't care. His back ached and he was starting to smell the mess on his shoes, so the idea of trying to figure out the bartender's Cajun mumbo jumbo was beyond him. 

A sharp inhalation of air caught Mick's attention, and he looked up from his glass as the bartender, with a shotgun in his hands, gripped tight, motioned to a couple of kids that were gathered loosely around the door. The bartender looked very serious, almost grave. "You kids get outta 'ere, y' 'ear me?" He said, loud and calm, if such things could have a peaceful coexistence. 

Deciding that the situation wasn't worth his time, Mick turned back around and downed the last of the vodka. His throat burned and his chest did, too. Mick pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the cash with a frown, shaking his head slightly as he saw that he only had fifty bucks left. Mick sighed at his own stupidity and pulled out a five, handing it over to the bartender, whose hand was held out without ever removing his other hand from the trigger. How he did such a thing, Mick also didn't know, and he also didn't care to find out 

Mick got off of his stool and, nearly gagging despite having smelt much worse things, turned back to look at the bartender. "Do you have a towel?" He asked in the nicest voice he could muster, keenly aware that, despite the bartender's seemingly friendly nature toward him, that he didn't seem mentally stable, and was currently threatening a bunch of fifteen-year-olds with a shotgun. 

The bartender blindly grabbed at a Terry cloth from behind the bar and tossed it toward Mick. He carefully balanced against the wall and, as more threats were uttered, quick and fanciful, Mick wiped most of the muck from his shoes, debating with himself on whether or not the kids would leave before the bartender would shoot. 

Thankfully, there were two entrances, or two exits, if you thought about it that way, which was undeniably correct although incorrect at the same time. Mick ducked out of the back, blinking as the shining lights of the street caught in his eyes, which hadn't even adjusted to the faint moonlight when compared to the darkness of the bar. 

All things considered, there weren't a lot of people milling about. There was a prostitute on a street corner, hair coiled around her head and a thin shawl wrapped around her body. A man was near the bridge, leaning over the railings in a way that seemed almost lackadaisical. Another man was approaching the woman, and Mick turned away, deciding that it was time to go back to his tiny, dirty little apartment. 

The building loomed in the distance, uncomfortably close. Mick had gone through a bottle of vodka, but he still seemed as alert as ever, which you had to be, if you wanted to survive the night. In his own way, Mick knew that the army knife in his jacket pocket would likely do little, but it was the thought that counted, and he didn't want to be caught dead without something that could've saved him from ending up dead in the first place. 

"Fuckin' rules of survival." Mick muttered, pulling a cigarette from the carton in his pocket and sticking it between his lips. He patted around for a moment, and wondered whether or not some slick kid had decided to pickpocket him. Mick threw a thanks up to whoever qas listening that the kid hadn't gotten his wallet, and just managed his way to a lighter, but then his hands hit cold steel and he pulled the lights from the back pocket. 

Mick lit his cigarette, and the faint light seemed like a single beacon. He scoffed around the obstruction in his mouth, and caught the eye of anofher nearby prostitute. Mick held up his middle finger and continued walking, ignoring the low mutter of the man who'd been standing behind the woman. He didn't care to be killed, nor did he care to be robbed and then killed. 

Life on the sunset strip was risky, and Mick risked his neck every time he dated venture out, especially when even the faint pinpricks of light from the sky above seemed like they'd gone out. But what was Mick to do, alone and left to rot inside of his apartment? The sunset strip was his solace, a place where he, just like everybody else, was lost and in need of a good, hot shower, a good, hot meal, and an actual bed. 

The bridge was getting closer, and the man who had been leaning over the railing was now standing on top of it. He was holding onto the pillars to keep himself from slipping, but he was looking down toward whatever lay beyond. Mick glanced and kept walking, but as he walked closer to the building, he was suddenly struck by a memory. 

When Mick had been a child, maybe five years old or so, his mother had been pulling him along from shop to shop, getting groceries for dinner. Back then, his name hadn't been Mick, it'd been Robert, and his mother, frenetic and windswept, been repeating the name under her breath to usher him along when there was a loud crashing noise. Robert had turned and there had a man, his body twisted and broken and contorted, laying atop of a car, the windshield broken into pieces, shattered glass laying on the pavement, and Robert had opened his mouth but then his mother had screamed and covered his eyes, pulling him into her arms, groceries long forgotten. 

After that day, Robert had stayed with his father, helping him repair motorcycles while his mother had gotten the groceries, and hadn't been allowed to ask questions about what had happened. But yet, Mick remembered that day, and felt goosebumps prick at his arms as he slowly turned around, and stared at the man on the bridge. 

The man had a family, a name, a reality in the driftings of a dream. Mick sighed, knowing that he likely wouldn't be enough of a conviction to save a life, but deciding to, at the very least, get a name so that the man wouldn't just be another nobody with dyed hair and no name. Mick decided that he owed the world that much, and so he started walking toward the bridge despite the persistent chill in the air. 

It was a dumb idea, Mick knew. It was probably a ploy, and as soon as Mick got close enough, there would be a knife against his neck and hands searching his pockets. But in the part of his mind that'd remained untouched, Mick couldn't live with himself if the man jumped and he had done nothing. If, when he woke up in the morning, there were ambulances and police cars and a single body with no name and no place to go besides the morgue. 

As soon as Mick got close enough to the bridge that loose gravel crunched underneath the tread of his boots, the man turned his head, opened his mouth, and nearly fell. Mick had a split second heart attack as the man scrambled for a better grip, fingers tight around the pillar, inky black hair flying in the bitterly cold wind, undeniably freezing in his minimal amount of leather and denim. 

"Stay the fuck back." The man said, teeth clenched tight. His boots squeaked on the ice that was caked onto the railing that had remained from the last snowfall but had yet to melt. Weirder things had happened on the sunset strip, Mick knew but didn't say. The man looked panicked, and Mick decided that he had made a good choice and he didn't know why. Behind his black hair, the man's eyes burned like green fire. 

Mick held up his hands, and then plucked the cigarette from his mouth so that he could sleep freely. The bridge was seldom used, and Mick wasn't afraid as he stood in the middle of the road, far from the man who he was trying to convince not to kill himself. "Calm down." Mick said. "I'm not going to hurt you, and if it makes you that angry, I won't try to talk you down, okay?" He chewed on the inside of his cheek as a flicker of emotion swept through the man's striking green eyes, as if shocked by the words. 

The man stared from around the pillar. "Why not?" He asked, and his voice had a different, softer tone this time, almost like he was nervous. 

"I want to know your name." Mick said, standing there, uncertain of where he was supposed to go. "For your family. Friends. Anybody." He gestured vaguely in the air and then looked at the man who, now that Mick could see him properly, looked more like a boy. 

"Well, forget it." The man looked away, down toward the cement ravine below. His grip loosened somewhat. Mick's heart lurched into his throat. "I don't have anybody." The man pressed his lips together into a thin line. 

Mick wondered if he was only delaying the inevitable, if he should've just walked along and not batted an eye. "You have me." He eventually said, although the words sounded awkward and probably only made the situation worse, if such a thing was even possible at that point. "Can you tell me your name?" Mick didn't want to know it, but he supposed that he needed to. 

The name would, undoubtedly, haunt him for eternity, just like the pale face that was staring at him from behind the pillar. "I don't have a name." The man said. 

A sharp laugh bit from Mick's mouth, and he shook his head. "Everybody has a fucking name, kid." He said, regretful for laughing, but still finding a strange, twisted humor in the response that he'd been given. 

"Well, I don't." The man said, and his tone was fiercely indignant. 

"Stop being stupid." Mick said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, nearly forgetting that he was holding the cigarette and nearly burning his eye off. He grunted and looked at the smoldering light, before stepping foward once and holding the cigarette out like some sort of offering. 

The man stared at Mick for a moment, as if trying to judge his intentions, and then he leaned foward enough to snag the cigarette. 

It seemed like a peace offering, an olive branch of sorts. Mick felt some of the thick tension dissipate, albeit, only slightly. "Here, would it make you feel better if I told you my name?" Mick asked, raising his eyebrowd slightly. He didn't know if it'd work or not, but it felt right, anyways. "My name is Mick." The name fell into the air, and it didn't sound like his name. 

There was a short stretch of contemplative silence. "I don't have a name." The man repeated, as if Mick hadn't heard the first time. 

Mick frowned. "That's just ridiculous." He said. "You _have_ to have a name, kid." 

"I got kicked out of the court before I could get my documents signed." The man finally relented, looking away and toward the buildings in the distance. "And I've already thrown out my old licence." He looked at Mick then, looking as if he were judging for a reaction. 

"Okay." That was hardly the weirdest thing that Mick had ever heard. "What's your new name, since you were so eager to change it?" He asked, leaning against one of the bridge pillars casually, arms crossed. 

For a moment, the man hesitated. He bit down hard on the cigarette, and then he sighed heavily, as if there were a heavy weight on his shoulders that was crushing his chest. "Nikki." He said softly. 

Mick smiled. "That's an interesting name." But it suited the man, in a strange way. 

"I guess." Nikki held the cigarette out again, and Mick took it. "You have a - an interesting name, too." 

The attempt conversation was awkward and stiff and the cold air was beginning to creep into Mick's spine, but he couldn't leave, not yet, anyways. He couldn't leave Nikki when he was obviously so alone, standing on the bridge, waiting for the right moment. "How did you end up here?" Mick asked. "People don't usually end up on a bridge just because they got kicked out of a court." He shrugged. 

Nikki shook some of his hair out of his face, looking uncertain. He shifted around slowly, falling silent as he seemed to debate with himself. "I don't know." He whispered. "I don't fucking know. A lot of things, I guess. But that doesn't mean that I know." Nikki shivered, his denim jacket doing little to protect him against the cold. 

"Then why are you still up there?" Mick asked. 

"Because there's nothing pushing me, but nothing pulling me back." Nikki shook his head, as if in emphasis to his words. "I don't have nothing here for me, and what's so bad about whatever the hell is beyond this?" His fingers curled and dug into the palms of his hands, pressed against the pillar. 

Silent, Mick suddenly knew that he didn't have the words to comfort Nikki, that they were two strangers in the night, that they didn't know each other and, for all anybody knew, Nikki was the sort of person that needed to be avoided on the sunset strip, but deep in those green eyes was nothing but hurt and pain and there was a certain weariness, a fear. Mick wasn't afraid of the man on the bridge, he was just curious. 

"So, nothing for you on both sides." Mick said, grunting as he grabbed the railing and then pulled himself up. He leaned against the railing, and held the cigarette out again. "Except for me, some guy who decided to talk to you." 

Nikki stared at him for a long minute, and then he crouched down, not quite sitting but no longer standing, as if conceding to a halfway defeat. He took the cigarette, and regarded Mick with something between mild amusement and a vague gratitude. "Yeah. Except for you, Mick."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm done with life.


End file.
